Trial
by Eldonyx
Summary: On the day the Republic falls, Depa Billaba is not the only mentor Caleb Dume loses.


_On the day the Republic falls, Depa Billaba is not the only mentor Caleb Dume loses._

XXXXXXX

Author's note:

At the time I wrote this, it was meant to fit in with canon. The comics, which I knew nothing of until very recently, make it into an AU instead. Hope you will enjoy it anyways.

XXXXXXX

 **Trial**

It's a bright, sunny spring day on this part of the new planet they landed on, and after nearly a month spent struggling in the knee-deep mud and perpetual rains of Quastameer, the radical change of scenery has everyone in higher spirits than normal (having next to no chance of being shot at helps, too).

They have been tasked with setting up a new listening post, the locals are friendly and more than happy to help, and the men are, for the most part, just as happy to let them – they don't get a chance to mingle with civilians very often, after all, and these are skilled workers truly making a difference, not helpless refugees getting underfoot.

In his five months on the battlefields, Caleb Dume has rarely had that peaceful a day and he feels like nothing could possibly go wrong.

And then the chair he was sitting on tips over – _is_ tipped over – from the precarious but comfortable balance he'd been holding it at, on its two back feet, and he ends up on his back on the ground, blinking up at the grinning face of Captain Shen.

"Come on, kid. There's still plenty of work to do. You're looking way too happy where you are."

"But I'm studying!" The boy protests, holding up his datapad in defense. The Clone snorts.

"Kid, even Jedi can't read with their eyes closed."

A few paces away from them, Sergeant Tell devolves into snickers over the equipment he's been putting together. "He's got you there, Commander!"

Caleb groans. Of course, he _had_ to jinx it, didn't he? And here he thought that with Master Depa on the other end of the construction site, he'd be able to catch a break…

At least now he will have a good excuse as to why he didn't finish reading that treaty on the history of Correllian politics, he thinks as he gets up under the Clone's amused watch, his reluctance mostly a façade.

XXX

Shen launched into an impromptu lesson on the inner workings of the communication tower as soon as they were close enough to the still half-gutted structure for him to point out the relevant elements, and while it isn't the most fascinating of subjects, he knows how to makes things interesting for the young Padawan.

If he weren't a soldier, he would make a good teacher, Caleb reflects, the amusing picture of an older Shen sitting on a teacher's desk and animatedly explaining something to a classfull of fascinated younglings popping up in his mind for a second. Who knows? Maybe one day he _will_ , if that horrid war ever ends.

He gets poked in the shoulder for his inattention. "You still there, Commander?" Shen asks teasingly, and Caleb, grinning back, tells him exactly what he was thinking about, imagining embarrassing details as he goes – the Captain's face is worth it.

He gets his hair ruffled for his efforts, having been somewhat purposefully a second too late to duck with a mock cry of indignation.

"Hey!" Disturbed into complete disarray, Caleb's long brown bangs fall all over his face, getting into his eyes. _Gah_. He _really_ needs a haircut – hasn't had the chance to get one since Master Depa accepted him as Padawan five months ago, and he was getting overdue _back then_. Long enough to be a nuisance but still too short to tie back with any efficiency, it is getting really annoying. Maybe he could ask Wirr tonight, he thinks, since for once they're not fighting for their lives… The Clone Tech Sergeant has come up with some pretty neat designs for his Brothers' close-cropped hair and Caleb would like one of those, too, if Master Depa doesn't mind…

"You asked for it, kid."

The Captain's wrist-comm.'s light starts blinking, interrupting their laughter. Imitating the Padawan's earlier reluctance to get back to work with a mock groan of his own, which teases another grin out of the boy, Shen puts his helmet back on and walks away to accept the transmission.

His back to Caleb, the Clone freezes, and the Force turns cold.

Dread seeping in for the first time today, the young Jedi takes an uneasy step forward. Something must have happened. Something _bad_.

"Shen?"

Caleb's comlink starts flashing, and the pattern in which it does immediately tells him who is at the other end.

"Master?" Something's wrong. Something's wrong, _wrong_ , the Force is _screaming_ –

"Caleb, RUN!" Stunned by the fear and despair in his Master's normally calm voice, by the wildly churning Force and the urgency flooding their training bond, the boy doesn't react instantly.

But then the Clone turns back to him, movements curiously mechanical, and his DCs are aimed at him and ready to shoot.

"Shen!" The Captain doesn't react to his name, and his usually warm presence is a cold empty wound in the Force. He projects only one thing: the intent to _kill_.

XXX

Later, he won't remember ducking and twisting to avoid the shots, or being forced to raise his lightsaber against friends suddenly turned executioners. The next few hours are a blur he _does not want_ to remember.

Stumbling upon his Master's burn-riddled body, or those of the civilian workers who tried to interfere. Reflecting a bolt into the face of the trooper who taught him how to play sabbacc. Running another through with his lightsaber – the medic who patched him up just last week.

He'd never had to kill sentient beings before.

Running, hiding, and running again until he can no longer run, blinded by tears and terrified out of his mind.

He spends the first night shivering in an old vegetable cellar, and leaves in the early morning before anyone can discover he broke in.

The locals would help him, he suspects, but he doesn't want to put them in danger and he fears he can't afford to trust them anyways.

He can't afford to trust _anyone_.

XXX

He smuggles himself off-planet squeezed in the air ducts of some big freighter, destination unknown. By the time he finally dares to stop and access the Temple's emergency frequency, even he has lost track of how many systems he's jumped between, and he wouldn't be able to name more than a handful of those.

On the emergency frequency, Councilmember Obi-Wan Kenobi warns all surviving Jedi to remain away from the Temple, to stay hidden and strong, and to trust in the Force. Painfully, the boy who can never be a Padawan again is reminded of that day, long ago (did only four years truly pass by?), when an innocent question might have sparked the current message.

He doesn't know why, but he saves it on his holocron.

XXX

He keeps running, and he never looks back.

He never did get the chance to have his hair cut in the end, so he starts tying it in a short nerf-tail instead. Never again he will think of wearing it in that close-cropped, artistically patterned style he once considered for himself.

He never finishes reading that treaty on the history of Correllian politics.

He gets rid of his Jedi tunics and burns his Padawan braid, hoping that from wherever she is now, his Master will forgive him. He forgets his own name. He keeps his holocron carefully hidden at all times. His lightsaber he partially dismantles, making it unrecognizable – he doesn't know what keeps him from leaving it behind altogether, but he's found on his first few attempts that he just _can't_.

Just as he can never completely shut out the Force.

Always his surest ally, the Force has become a burden he cannot escape, a black mark that sets him apart when even despite all his efforts, his reflexes are forever just a little too good, his moves just a little too fast, his intuition just a little too keen.

Surviving Jedi are still being hunted: he can never stay in one place too long, so he keeps running.

For nearly a decade, Kanan Jarrus runs, nothing but the clothes on his back and an old packsack to his name. From world to world and meaningless job to meaningless job, he works to afford the drinks that will grant him oblivion, and when people start getting suspicious or when he is becoming too comfortable in one place, he leaves.

And then, in the eternal muggy night of a mudball tidally locked with its sun called Gorse, he meets Hera Syndulla.

He starts re-learning to trust.

And five years later, on a very much normal mid-rim planet called Lothal, he meets Ezra Bridger.

He stops running.

XXX

At first, when they meet the clones Ahsoka sent them to find, Kanan's instinct is to fight. Fight, protect his Padawan, and _run_. It is Ezra himself who stops him, time and time again. And when Rex decides to stay with the Rebellion, it seems like everybody pitches in.

Ahsoka, with her open display of affection and deep friendship for the old clone, and who sits him down that first night to explain the biochips and what they did.

Hera, with her constant reminders to _get along, boys_ , and who will lend a listening ear every time he needs one.

Zeb, who befriends the man as if he were just another rebel even though there must have been many clones among the Stormtroopers who destroyed his world.

Sabine, who looks up at him as if he were a Mandalorian veteran, most respected figure in her culture. Their conversations in Mando'a often prolong long into the night.

Rex himself, whose looks of pity and guilt he can sense directed his way when he's not looking.

Ezra, who actually asks for (or is offered; Kanan isn't too clear on that) blaster-handling lessons from the clone. Kanan opposes them, but they do it anyway.

And watching them train, he sees another boy and another Captain, and finally admits to himself that Master Depa wasn't the only mentor he lost that day. He remembers how that other boy's story ended, too, and because he doesn't want Ezra to be broken like he was he pushes them apart, again and again – to little effect, much to his chagrin.

XXX

After he is blinded, Rex comes to find him one night, sitting across him at the table despite the very pointed hint that Kanan wants to be left alone, determination all across his aura.

"Caleb Dume. That was your name, wasn't it? Commander of the 313th, under General Billaba."

Kanan chokes on his tea.

"H-how – ?!" He hears the old clone shrug. "I asked. Ezra couldn't tell me your name, but he remembered your master's."

"Why tell me that now?"

Movement that informs him Rex has leaned backward in his chair, crossing his arms. "I've been talking with people. Brothers. Some are still in service, and some aren't. Traced back some of your old unit."

Kanan knows he's frozen, knows what his face must look like at the moment, but the clone keeps plowing on as though _he_ were the one completely blind.

"Captain Shen got himself decommissioned only months after _it_ happened – as soon as that fekking chip let him, I'd guess. Medical files claim he was suicidal… He hasn't been heard from in a while, but I have his last known address."

And he's gaping now. Utterly speechless. Obviously, Rex doesn't care.

"We're going to go there, you and I. Tonight. I already have the all-clear from Command and Captain Hera's loaning us the Phantom. She's promised she'd help drag you there herself if you don't cooperate."

Bereft of choice and strangely numb to the happenings, Kanan bows to the clone's demands without struggle.

XXX

Kaya is a tranquil, blue, green and white jewel of a planet with a tidally-locked moon, lost in a seldom-visited corner of the Outer Rim, Rex explains during transit, and the man is a good enough storyteller that the Jedi finds himself listening even if he doesn't want to.

He went there once during the Clone Wars, for a mission, he claims, and he remembers a peaceful world, sparsely inhabited almost exclusively by humans, with traces of ancient civilisations constantly appearing left and right and a technology less advanced than it should be because of the rarity of contacts with the rest of the galaxy.

It is early morning where they set down, on the outskirts of a relatively small village exuding quiet, undisturbed, _ancient_ history like few places Kanan has ever been to. It is a small bubble of uninterrupted eternity, gliding on the endless cycles of nature and life generation after generation – the stars may wheel overhead, but this village has always been and shall forever be, the old stones seem to whisper in this place where the boundaries between Unifying and Living Force blur into an almost tangible unity.

Rex finds the right address almost immediately, along the road toward the center of the village.

"Looks like my intel was good", he tells Kanan even though no one answers the doorbell. His blind companion quirks his head in curiosity.

"There's a plaque with his name on the door", he explains in answer.

But the man they're looking for is not home, it would seem, so Kanan decides it must be the will of the Force and that it is time to return to the Phantom –

Rex stops him with a heavy hand on his shoulder before he can even finish his sentence.

"Oh no, you're not. He can't have gone too far; there's no sign he even owns a speeder. Let's head into town, walk around. This place is so small I'm sure we'll find him quick."

Resigned, Kanan follows him, knowing the old clone is right. If he starts running again now, he will never stop.

At the center of the village is a plaza paved with rough little stones, surrounded by buildings – one of which definitely smells like a bakery, his stomach notices pleadingly. They get in for some breakfast that isn't nutrient bars.

"My, my", the woman holding the shop greets them. "Surely you have to be related to our dear Mr. Shen! You look so much like him!"

"I'm his brother", Rex answers politely.

"I didn't know he had any living family!"

"Yeah…" Rex sighs. "Didn't even know where he'd disappeared to until recently, unfortunately. I've just arrived and there was nobody home; still looking for him, actually…" It sounds like he's done that before, Kanan thinks, and suddenly he wonders how many times. The Grand Army of the Republic once counted millions of clones, and there are very few left among the Stormtroopers now: how many have faded into the background like this, integrating themselves to unknowing populations with no one the wiser? And how many has Rex contacted since joining the Rebellion, during those frequent absences Kanan was so happy about he never thought to question?

"Oh. Right. I suppose he would have cut all bridges, after that horrid incident that happened before he came here", the lady answers with the tone of someone fishing for details.

Kanan goes rigid, and the woman quickly picks up on it: she doesn't wait for an answer. "Sorry, sorry. At this hour, he would be with the children, of course; it's just next door."

"Thank you, madam." _Children?_

"Now let's see about feeding you, shall we? Your son looks like he could use some more meat on his bones."

They _both_ sputter at that one. Where the kriff did she get the idea?

"We're not – we're not – "

"He's my nephew", Rex finally articulates, very deliberately, and Kanan can _sense_ the smirk. At first, he doesn't understand why. The implication strikes him at about the same time it hits the vendor, and he wants to strangle the clone – until the woman starts talking again, and he forgets all about it.

"Oh. _Oh!_ _You're_ the little Caleb? The boy he failed to protect… You're his _son_?! He never told… No wonder the poor man was so traumatized when he came here, if he thought he'd killed his own son!"

Before her two gobsmacked visitors can react, the matron has marched around her counter and caught each by a sleeve, and is dragging them both toward the door. "I was going to suggest you wait until recess to avoid disrupting the class, but _this_!"

In no time, she is pushing them into the adjacent building. Beyond the entry hall, four doors; four classes, bright young minds busy at work in each.

In the closest, a warm presence, badly scarred but still unmistakeable. Broken, but healing.

And in the instant before the excited bakery vendor knocks on the door, Kanan is granted a vision, a simple view of the present as those beside him undoubtedly see it right now, almost like a momentary return of his sight:

That door has a window, and beyond it an old clone sits on the teacher's desk, animatedly explaining something to a classfull of fascinated younglings. His figure is still quite fit but undeniably leaner than Rex's, and his white hair is cropped close in an almost military style that would seem severe if not for the artistic swirls and patterns shaved into it – the way Caleb Dume once wanted his to be.

He's seen this before, a flash of an image he'd thought born from imagination on the day it all started. For the first time, the memory lends him strength rather than agony.

When that door opens, he is standing straight, unseeing but ready.

Caleb Dume or Kanan Jarrus, no matter: he is no longer that broken Padawan, forever fleeing in the dark.

He is a Jedi Knight, and he is _done_ running.


End file.
